


Whilst Under the Surface you Break the Ice

by MatchaMint



Series: Icy Waters [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Depression, Dream Smp, Emotional Manipulation, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not RPF, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychosis, Sickfic, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, angst for the whole family, but more focus on mental health issues, canon-divergent, non-linear recovery, not joking with that one dont even try me, retired technoblade, sbi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28864200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatchaMint/pseuds/MatchaMint
Summary: Had Tommy shown up on his doorstep begging for help, Techno would have laughed and slammed the door in his face.Techno does not look kindly upon those who only come to him when they need something from him. In the past, despite their alliances, Tommy has consistently chosen government over Techno. Let him crawl back to his government for help. Oh, they exiled him? Should have seen that betrayal coming, Tommy, Technoblade told you so.Instead, Tommy shows up under his floorboards, hiding away like an animal, succumbing to the cold. Technoblade is a lot of things. Bitter, resentful, violent. But he's not the kind of man who, due to negligence, lets children freeze to death under his roof.(Basically a Techno-centric recovery fic where Techno RELUCTANTLY takes care of a post-exile Tommy. Dream has other plans.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Icy Waters [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2116722
Comments: 48
Kudos: 528





	1. The Boy in the Ice

**Author's Note:**

> -About fictional characters from the dream SMP, not RPF.  
> -Please heed the warnings/sensitive topics in the tags.  
> -This fic starts out only mildly canon-divergent and then becomes wildly canon-divergent—just so you know. I drafted it around new years.  
> -Technically a sequel to 'learn your lessons lest you drown', but can fully be read as a stand-alone.

There’s a raccoon living in Techno's house.

At first, he doesn't think much of it.

Upon returning from an ender pearl hunting trip late at night, he notices the slight disarray. Some items on his workstation are toppled over or shoved aside. Some gapples are missing from their basket, gold dust scattered around. There’s the lingering smell of wet hair.

He does what one does when vermin creeps into their house: he ups his food hygiene. The next morning, he puts away his leftover gapples in chests, rids all surfaces of crumbs. He cleans out the gunk in his potion stands. Leftover potion ingredients, before haphazardly strewn around, get put back into their respective pots, lids screwed tightly.

On night two, Techno jolts awake from a heavy, muffled thump. That gets his attention more critically, the threat of the Butcher Army fresh on his mind. He grabs his Netherite pickaxe from his bedstand and rushes downstairs.

Whatever it is, it’s gone by the time he reaches the ground floor. Techno sniffs out an odd scent, ash and filth and something else he can’t place—either way, it puts the raccoon hypothesis back on the table. He follows the stench down to his basement, but it ends there. Maybe the raccoon came back to check for more food, then left when there was none to be found?

He can't find one of his old worn-down helmets that morning, but then again, he was about to throw that one out anyway. Maybe he already did. The voices tell him he's getting old. Others tell him there’s an intruder in his base, but he knows not to lend them too much credibility. He’s done his phase of intense hallucination-induced paranoia in his teenage years, thank you very much.

Except on the third day, more gapples go missing. And a stack of gold blocks. And this time, out of one of his chests. A locked chest.

The raccoon has opposable thumbs. And a bigger brain, but only marginally. Who the fuck would steal gold blocks and expect it to go unnoticed?

It takes him about ten minutes of investigation before he sniffs it out. A pair of floorboards, scuffed at one end, as if they’d been repeatedly scraped against the wall. When he pries them away, there’s an opening. The same scent from yesterday meets him, but stronger.

He descends the ladder, skipping the last few rungs. What he finds is a little sub-basement carved out of stone, that was decidedly not there before. He draws his Netherite pickaxe, stands perfectly still as his eyes adapt to the darkness.

A person-sized lump lies curled up in the corner, bundled in a grubby brown overcoat, back turned towards the entrance. Sticking out is a head of messy blond hair.

What the fuck. That’s Tommy. That’s Tommy in Wilbur’s old coat.

Explains the gold theft, but also, _what_?

Techno rises to his full height, raises his pickaxe, inhales. “Tommy, what the fuck are you doing under my house!” he thunders. His gravelly voice echoes off the walls, low and deafening. It does not have the intended effect of jump scaring Tommy up against the ceiling, comically have him screaming in terror, or anything, really. Tommy doesn't react at all.

Techno huffs. Stealing scraps from Techno’s base is one thing. Robbing him of a perfectly dramatic entrance by pretending to sleep? Insult to injury.

Techno stomps over. “I know you stole from me, you little gremlin!” He rips the overcoat away from Tommy’s shoulder. The boy rolls with the movement like a rag doll. A handful of gapples he’d been cradling underneath his shirt roll on the floor. It's only then when Techno sees it, in the dim reflected light of the little cave.

He looks like shit.

His clothes—thin and not appropriate for the climate in the first place— are torn with rips and holes. His hands are purpling. His face is pale as snow expect for the large fading bruise underneath his eye socket.

Techno holds two fingers to the side of Tommy’s neck—the skin’s deathly frigid, and for a moment he’s afraid he’s going to have to live with the embarrassment of having yelled at a corpse—then he feels it. The sputtering of a pulse underneath. Still beating, but slow, like a stagnating clock.

Tommy is not sleeping. He's unconscious.

Techno hasn’t noticed, because he’s not a moron and actually wears winter-appropriate gear, but it's _freezing_ down here. The air is humid and cold. No isolation, just the icy cold stone conducting all of the outside's worst temperatures straight inside. What an idiot. Barely beats sleeping out in the snow.

_Kill the idiot. He stole from you!_

_Don’t hurt him!_

_He betrayed you! They all did!_

Techno hesitates. The pickaxe feels heavy in his hand. He thinks of Phil, before angrily dispelling the thought.

_Blood is blood. Its thickness irrelevant._

_Blood for the Blood God!_

“I’m in retirement from all that,” he reminds them under his breath. Reminds himself.

However, the easy alternative, leaving Tommy here, would be a worse ordeal with the same conclusion.

The yelling continues in his ears. Techno waves the voices off; this decision is his, not theirs.

The thing is, had Tommy shown up on his doorstep begging for help, Techno would have laughed and slammed the door in his face.

Techno does not look kindly upon those who only come to him when they need something from him. In the past, despite their alliances, Tommy has consistently chosen government over Techno. Let him crawl back to his government for help. Oh, they exiled him? Should have seen that betrayal coming, Tommy, Technoblade told you so.

Instead, Tommy shows up under his floorboards, hiding away like an animal, succumbing to the cold. Technoblade is a lot of things. Bitter, resentful, violent. But he's not the kind of man who, due to negligence, lets children freeze to death under his roof.

It’s simply not his style.

* * *

Techno easily shoulder-carries the almost-corpse to his living room, lays him down on a fur roll in front of the fireplace. Illuminated by the morning light pouring in through the window on one side and the fire on the other, the severity of Tommy’s physical condition becomes clear.

As much as Techno likes to brag about his strength, the reason Tommy was so easy to pick up lies clearly with the fact that there simply isn’t much left of the boy. Tommy was lanky before, in the way that teenage boys sometimes are nearing the end of their growth spurts. Now it’s blatant malnutrition. Now he has hollowed out cheeks, protruding ribs, and elbows that could be mistaken for knives. He’s been hurt, too. Scuffs and scrapes, a multitude of fading bruises. Several fresh scars where the skin is still raised and red: stab-wounds and arrowheads by the looks of it. One scar, or more correctly said, a group of scars, stands out. It’s a highly random pattern of crisscross cuts, both surface-level and some deeper lacerations. It runs all the way from the right side of his jaw down his neck towards the backside of his shoulder where it disappears under his collar, present again on his forearm. What the fuck did he do in exile, eat twigs and pick fist fights with piglins? Roll in glass?

But Tommy’s clothes are clammy, his skin cold, and his fingers inch dangerously close to purple, and that is definitely the more relevant problem right now.

Techno goes through the motions of what he knows to fight hypothermia. First, extra logs in the fireplace. Second, peeling off Tommy’s damp clothes and replacing them with a set of his own pyjamas (ridiculously oversized on Tommy, but dry). Then, blankets: two wool ones, one cotton, a deer skin—everything’s he’s got, he heaps on Tommy. Finally, he goes over Tommy’s fingers and toes one by one, checking each for any signs of darkening.

Afterwards he settles down next to the hearth by Tommy’s feet, prodding at the logs here and there to give the fire more air, coaxing the flame until it burns hot and high. And he waits. There is nothing more to do. Periodically, he feels the artery in Tommy’s neck, checking both temperature and pulse.

The good news: Tommy does warm up. After several hours, his face regains the smallest amount of color (from ‘corpse’ to ‘hasn’t seen the sun in ten years but still kicking it,’ which Technoblade thinks should count). His extremities go from purple to a ruddy red. His pulse settles. That means no acute internal organ failure, no frostbite.

The flipside is that he starts overheating. Techno notices the warmth when he checks his neck. He pushes up Tommy’s fringe to feel at his forehead. It’s hot to the touch.

Shit, was this number of blankets too many? The fire too hot?

(Some voices criticize him for his lack of scrutiny. Others are completely incoherent. And then there is those that tell him, on repeat, to stab Tommy’s neck now that he's vulnerable. More or less the usual mix, then.)

Techno ends up moving Tommy, fur roll and all, to the guest bed upstairs that is usually reserved for Phil. The room is still pleasantly warm, but not as hot, and he removes some of the excess blankets.

But by the time the sun peaks in the sky, Tommy is burning up. Sweat gathers on his forehead. He coughs a little, but otherwise shows no signs of waking up. Techno finds himself pacing in the bedroom, unable to focus on any other task, hyperaware of every one of Tommy’s twitches and coughs. Techno’s tail swipes behind restlessly. “Gods help me, Tommy, you better not be developing pneumonia,” he grumbles to deaf ears.

There really are no gods, or they have a twisted sense of humor, for the coughing only worsens over the following hours. Coughs turn into hacks turn into rough, wet choking sounds, as Tommy starts drowning on the fluid in his lungs. He shivers like he’s submerged in ice water, though when Techno picks up his wrist, all he feels is lava running through his veins. Techno is no doctor, nor does he have the equipment to make an official diagnosis, but even he can see that Tommy has a bad case of 'no good.'

Techno had anticipated this to be a quick fix, a side-note in his and Tommy’s long, convoluted history. He’d get Tommy warmed up and functional, because he is not a monster, then kick him out, because he also doesn’t owe Tommy shit. He did not realize Tommy was a little further away from ‘functional’ than he originally calculated.

For a moment, Techno seriously considers making the three-hour trek to what he knows is Phil’s current location on foot —it’s too snowy to take Carl— to dump this problem child off at the person arguably most qualified to deal with it. He would've done it, too, had he not been confident Tommy would die during such a trip.

Phil tolerates a lot of crazy from Techno, but stopping by to deliver Tommy’s fresh corpse is a bit much, even from him.

Techno sighs. Time to suck it up. He’s apparently decided to keep Tommy alive, and though Technoblade sometimes makes ill-informed decisions, he _never_ half-asses their execution.

* * *

First things first, he puts a damp washcloth on Tommy’s forehead, then uses a second one to wash the worst of the grime and sweat off his skin. He tucks him back in even as Tommy restlessly tries to push away the blankets. Then he makes his way downstairs.

Down in the basement Techno goes through racks and racks of potions, looking for something that might help. All he finds are generic health potions, which are only useful for flesh wounds (and though Tommy looks like he’s gone through a meat grinder, all his injuries are minor or already scarred over). All the rest of his stock is potions aimed to kill, or utility potions aimed to help infiltrate or kill, and an inexplicable multiplicity of water breathing potions.

(Techno doesn’t think those help when the fluid is already _inside_ your lungs.)

At least Techno knows potions. He settles on brewing some regeneration potions, and when their bases are simmering, starts researching how to fortify them with immune-boosting properties. That’s how he spends the night, glasses on, surrounded by upturned books on his work bench, illuminated by several lanterns.

Tommy coughs throughout the night, wetly and painfully. At least Techno doesn't have to go around checking his pulse anymore.

* * *

The potion helps, or maybe Techno’s semi-adequate care-taking skills do; either way, Tommy is not dead by morning. The cough remains, though as the day progresses it stops sounding like he’s trying to violently dispel all of his organs along with it.

Tommy wakes up sporadically, if it can be called waking up. A somewhat heightened sense of alertness, maybe. His eyes will be open, but his pupils unfocused. His movements limited to restless fussing. His speech indiscernible. When actual words are formed, their cohesion and grammatical structure are nowhere to be found. He repeats the word ‘dream’ several times, which Techno finds peculiar, but chooses to politely (conveniently) ignore.

When ‘awake’ Tommy can manage to stay in a sitting position if Techno puts him there, which about sums up the extent of Tommy’s current physical and mental abilities. It’s enough to get some liquids in him, at least.

(This is good, because Techno accidentally almost choked Tommy trying to get him to drink the potion earlier, which, on the cosmic scale on ways he prefers to kill, ranks even lower than accidentally freezing teenagers in his basement.)

So that’s how he ends up sat on the side of the bed, spoon feeding a half-conscious Tommy a vegetable broth. Techno's not sure for whom this is more humiliating: Tommy, who has to be fucking spoon fed to survive, or himself, who has somehow convinced himself to do said spoon feeding.

(It's definitely the latter; Techno is the one who has to live with this memory, after all.)

* * *

Techno even washes Tommy's hair, once his fever backs out of the dangerous range, even though he admits it’s not strictly medically necessary.

The voices mock him for it. Screw them. He hasn't gone soft. Techno just spends so much time meticulously taking care of his own long locks that even glancing at the sticky, clumped up bird nest on top of Tommy's head is offensive to his eyes. Not to mention the stench. Don't they know a pig's sense of smell is about 2000 times more sensitive than a human's? The voices can stick it.

Afterwards he sits at the head of the bed behind Tommy’s pillow to take a brush to the damp hair. The tangles are stubborn, even after washing, twisted and constricted after what must be many weeks of neglect. Sorting them out takes time. A lesser man might have taken the scissors to it by now in frustration. Luckily for Tommy, if there’s anything Techno is rich in, it is the patience for carrying out menial tasks.

When he finally untangles the first half, it becomes apparent how much Tommy’s hair has grown. Brushed straight, the blond locks cover the length of Techno’s hand. Tommy must not have cut it in his time in exile. Its length makes it painfully obvious how many months that has been. Unwillingly, Techno’s eyes wander to Tommy’s gaunt cheeks, to the scars edging over his jawline, silently speaking of other things that must have happened during this time. The hair slips through his fingers.

Techno’s tail flicks in annoyance. It’s none of _his_ business what Tommy did and didn’t do in exile, and he shouldn’t make it so. He turns Tommy’s head to the side to get to the other half and refocuses on the untangling with fervor.

He might have been pulling harder than is comfortable. It must be what wakes Tommy up. Wide eyes stare up at Techno. Actually stare at him, not just through him. Techno lowers the brush slowly. Okay, the voices were right. This is awkward.

“Dream?” Tommy says. His voice is scratchy, his vocal cords scraped raw from all the coughing.

Techno raises an eyebrow. Again, with the calling out to Dream. “I'm not that ugly, aren't I?” he says. There's no light of recognition in Tommy’s eyes, not even at the joke.

“Stay still, I'm almost done,” Techno grumbles. He takes the last strand of Tommy's hair in his hand. For a moment, all is silent. Techno works out the tangles with his fingers, first, then reaches for the brush again.

“I'm sorry,” Tommy rasps, and Techno almost drops the brush straight down into Tommy's face. He's pretty sure this would be one hell of a sentimental moment for anyone else, for someone to apologize while in such a weak, vulnerable state. But Techno knows Tommy. He never fucking apologizes, not when he ostensibly should and definitely not out of politeness. And unquestionably, not to Technoblade.

“Sorry for what?” he asks, keeping his voice a careful neutral.

Tommy coughs, and then coughs some more. “I shouldn’t have hidden those items from you,” he whispers, a little breathless. “I’ll be better, I swear.”

Okay, what? It’s actual grammatical sentences, but… is he apologizing for stealing the gapples? Surely not. Techno pulls on Tommy's hair hard with the brush as a test, and the boy doesn't even call him a bitch, or any other expletive. He just keeps looking at him with that glazed, distant expression. Yeah, he's still completely fucking delirious, isn't he.

“Do you know where you are, Tommy?”

“Uhm,” Tommy says. He shifts uncomfortably. His eyes flicker from Techno, to one side to the room, to the other. He grips the covers in alarm, his face scrunched up in confusion. “What? I—"

Violent coughs wrack his body. He could probably use another dose of that potion. 

“Uh,” Techno says, at a loss.

“No, no, no,” Tommy continues. His back rises from the bed, palms desperate to find purchase on the mattress, before slumping back down. The look he sends Techno is frantic. “I'm not allowed to be here.”

“That ship has already sailed, man. I’m the one that brought you upstairs, so...” Techno puts a hand down on Tommy’s arm, to keep him from jumping, or to calm him, he doesn’t know. Either way, it’s the wrong move.

“I said I’m sorry!” Tommy screams, pitch jumping straight into hysterics territory before his voice cracks completely. He trashes wildly, wiggles his shoulder out from under Techno’s grip, even though Techno’s fingers have already gone slack by sheer surprise.

Tommy blathers something more, then before Techno can think to stop him, jumps up with surprising agility for someone who's been bedridden for days. The agility lasts about two whole seconds. On his flight from the bed, Tommy’s foot tangles in the sheets. Rather than jumping he trips out of the bed, loses his balance immediately, and faceplants into floorboards below. He's immediately unconscious again.

“You're fucking welcome,” Techno calls after him, brush still in hand. He wants that reaction from people when he's lording over them with a sword to their throat, not when he's doing them a favor.

A few seconds pass before Techno sighs in defeat. No use in being mad at a delirious teenager. He picks Tommy up and tucks him back into the bed.


	2. The Crossbow Incident

Tommy has been out like a light since his little stunt from earlier, and Techno is content to let him sleep. All the more peace to him. He does check up on him several times, sees the red bump forming on Tommy’s forehead, and feeds him a health potion just in case. He doesn’t _think_ Tommy would get brain damage from that one fall, he’s too hard-headed for that, but it would be awkward to explain if he did. So. Health potion it is.

He spends the rest of the day working away at the chores he’d gotten behind on. He even goes out to clean his turtle farm, relishes the clarity that the cold breeze and the crunch of snow under his hooves bring. Most of the time is taken up by shovelling aside the several feet of snow until the sand and droppings become visible in the first place; snowfall has been heavy over the past few days.

It is simply refreshing to be outside after being holed up with a feverish Tommy for days. Things should only get better once Tommy recovers and Techno can finally kick him out.

Ironically, it’s precisely when Tommy starts to get better that Techno becomes truly alarmed.

* * *

Techno enters the main door on the first floor, having already stored his shovel in the shack outside. He’s hanging his cloak on the peg by the main door when he hears a series of thuds coming from upstairs.

“Tommy, you up?” Techno shouts at the ceiling.

There is a scramble, before the sound stops completely.

Techno makes his way up the stairs two steps at a time. “Dude, you better not be breaking my stuff the first moment you’re a—oh.”

He rounds the stairs. Tommy is indeed out of bed.

He’s also in the far corner of the room, perched on a crate, brandishing a crossbow. The crossbow is aimed directly at Technoblade.

“Don’t move!” Tommy yells hoarsely. His eyes are wide, posture reminiscent of a cornered animal.

Technoblade is already frozen. “Woah, woah,” he says. He squints his eyes. It’s Techno’s own crossbow. An old, rusty one, but functional and loaded. There are barely any weapons in the house, not after what the Butcher Army did to him, how did he even find that one? Is it too much to ask for people to stop looting his goddamn arsenal?

“Dude,” he says, annoyance seeping in his voice. He fucking saved the brat’s life, and _this_ is the first thing he decides to do?

Techno takes a step forward.

“Stay back, bitch, or I—” Tommy’s threat is cut short by his own coughing fit. It’s clear the boy can barely keep his head up from the intensity of it; he wobbles and ends up pressing his head back up against the corner for balance, taking puny breaths. Techno sends him a non-plussed stare.

“Not exactly radiating dominance here, Tommy. Maybe don’t pick a fight when you’re too busy fighting your own lungs.”

Tommy looks back down. “Technoblade?” he says, softer, visibly confused. He lowers the crossbow. Then the anger comes back full-blown. “What the fuck are _you_ doing here!?”

Really? _Really_!?

“This is _my_ house!” Techno yells back. “Which _you_ broke into!”

Tommy shrinks back into his corner and raises the tiller again with alarming speed, aiming it at Techno’s chest. Okay, maybe don’t shout at the visibly confused and cornered person cradling a weapon, Technoblade, you idiot.

Techno slowly raises his hands to shoulder-level in a pacifying motion. “Fine, okay. We’re not dwelling on that, right, you’ve already been here for a few days.”

“A few...”

A beat of silence.

Tommy’s eyes dart across the room. “Where is Dream?”

Techno frowns. “Uh. No idea. What do you need with Dream?”

Tommy coughs into his arm. “My head’s all spinny, I don’t know what to do, I need—I need my friend.” A friend? Oh, he’s still delirious, alright. Tommy has been enemies with Dream the moment they set foot in this land. If Techno remembers correctly, Dream was the one to get Tommy exiled.

“Dream’s your friend?”

“Yep. He…” Doubt fills his eyes, before fear takes its place. The speed of the shift is a little off-putting. “I can’t be here. I’m not supposed to,” Tommy continues, quieter, like he is disclosing a secret. But really, it’s the same word vomit he was spewing the last time he was awake. And Techno remembers how flighty and unpredictable he had been then, is keenly aware of the crossbow Tommy has aimed at him this time around.

“Last time I checked, I don’t live in L’Manberg,” Techno says, slowly.

That doesn’t pacify Tommy in the way that he hoped. He just laughs nervously. “Did you tell anyone I’m here?”

“No.”

Tommy shakes his head. His grip on the crossbow is shaking as his weak arms struggle to keep it raised. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not exactly a social person, live in the middle of nowhere, who would I tell? No one has been here.” Testing the waters, Techno takes a step closer as he talks.

No bite. Tommy regrips the crossbow, propping it onto his knee so he can keep it trained at Techno at all times. Techno takes the step back.

They’ve reached an impasse. Techno can’t come closer, and Tommy only seems to get more agitated by the minute. Techno himself is unarmed, having left his pickaxe downstairs. There’s an iron sword hidden underneath his bed, but Techno doesn’t like his chances grabbing it without getting shot. The crossbow may be old and unenchanted, but he’s been pierced by a bolt twice before and the second time was already one time too many.

The only real option he has, and he scowls at the thought, is talking his way out of this.

Techno sighs. “Lower the crossbow. Tommy, you just woke up after days of being very ill, I get it, you’re freaked out. You’re confused.”

The shaking worsens. “I’m not—” Tommy’s mouth snaps shut. “You can’t tell me I’m confused! I loaded this crossbow, I know how to use it, I do.” And then he’s coughing again, and Techno greatly dislikes the way it jolts the loaded crossbow dangerously.

Yeah, so Techno is usually the instigator of violent conflict. He is not good at de-escalating it, unless it involves violently shutting the other party down, because in that case he is very good at de-escalation. There’s a chorus of _‘Blood for the Blood God!’_ in his ears, too, which does not help.

“Tommy, here’s what going to happen if you shoot me,” he retries. “I’m a big guy, one bolt is unlikely to take me down.” Unless Tommy lands a shot in his head, he doesn’t mention, but with how much Tommy’s shaking, gripping and regripping the handle, Techno wouldn’t say it’s likely. “I’ll be at you with only a few steps, way before you can load a second bolt. And I’ll be very mad.”

Tommy looks down at the crossbow mechanism, at the bolts lying on the table next to him, at the four meters separating the two of them. The sweat is visible on his skin now.

“Alternately, you could put down the crossbow on the ground, and I promise I won’t be mad. I will brew us some tea and we can talk over it. Which option sounds preferable to you?”

“You’re lying! You’re going to kill me either way.”

“Tommy. If I’d wanted you dead, I would have stabbed you when I found you unconscious, or let you freeze to death in my basement, or could have been slightly neglectful in treating your fever. Give me some credit here.”

A confused noise escapes Tommy’s throat. His eyes flicker over the bed he woke up in, his brow crunched up in a way that’s almost comical, like he’s trying to solve the world’s most elusive mathematical equation.

“But,” he says weakly, “I pointed a weapon at you.”

Present tense, but okay. Techno tries to mute the anger in his voice. “I’ll let that one slide this time. Just. Put it down, Tommy.”

Because he is angry, alright, for being threatened in his own home, again. But not enough to do anything drastic. Not when Tommy is so clearly out of his mind.

Tommy’s mouth thins into a line. The disbelief is clear from the fear in his eyes, but his shoulders slump. “Okay,” he rasps. He mumbles something to himself, inaudible. Lowers the crossbow with shaky, uncoordinated hands.

That’s when everything goes to absolute shit.

On the way down, the mechanism’s lever gets caught on the crate’s edge, releasing the string. The shot goes wide, flits through the air past Techno’s left shoulder. He feels the air displace as it passes. Glass shatters behind him—the window in the opposite corner.

Techno swears. Tommy screeches, regripping the crossbow in a frenzy, his eyes wide with horror.

Wasting no time, Techno rushes forward and wrenches the the weapon out of Tommy’s cramped arms. Although it’s unlikely Tommy will try to shoot again, people driven in a corner make unpredictable moves, and he’s not waiting around for Tommy to stop panicking and try loading the other bolt. He places the crossbow on the ground and kicks it to the side with his hoof, out of reach.

When he turns back, Tommy has pressed himself flat against the wall, body twisted away, face hidden in the crook of his elbow. His breath comes in short, erratic bursts.

“Tommy,” Techno says in an even voice.

Tommy shrinks away even further. His other arm curls around his neck. Into his elbow, he’s attempting and failing to string together an apology. “I—I’m—I didn’t—Sorry I—I am—” The too quick intakes of breath are louder than his voice as he chokes on every single syllable, interrupted only by a coughing fit.

This is not Tommy fighting him till his last breath. This is him giving up, waiting for the blow to land. It’s the most pitiful he’s ever seen Tommy, and he literally spoon fed the guy yesterday. It doesn’t give him any satisfaction. It turns his stomach, makes him feel like he’s witnessing something he shouldn’t.

It doesn’t help that with the defensive way Tommy has positioned himself Techno can see the edges of that gnarly scar on his arms, his neck, and from earlier he knows its epicenter is at the shoulder blade that is currently facing Techno. Tommy continues shaking, continues failing to breathe. _Oh._

Techno steps back away from Tommy. All the leftover anger bleeds away from him, even as the voices still hoot and howl.

“Tommy, calm down.” It’s hopelessly inadequate as far as strategies to calm someone down go, but what else is he supposed to do? He was not made for this.

There is no indication that Tommy has even heard him.

“I know what I said, and you’re a fool for pointing a loaded crossbow if you didn’t intend to use it, but the shot was clearly an accident, okay? Relax.”

Tommy’s attempt at forming apologies stop, and though Techno would love to take credit, it’s more likely because he’s choking on air than anything Techno had said. The shame of Techno’s social incompetence hits him. Time stretches. Tommy hyperventilates.

_Say something, comfort him._

_You monster. Look at what you did._

_Pitiful._

_Cull the weakling._

_Kill him._

_What are you doing_ _?_

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Techno grits out, and walks away. He takes the crossbow with him.

* * *

He returns half an hour later with two mugs of hot water. His kettle doesn’t boil that slowly.

Only now does he feel the chilling evening breeze inviting itself in through the broken window, having cooled the room considerably. Techno temporarily sets down the mugs to close the shutters—setting in a new windowpane will have to wait for tomorrow.

Tommy has... calmed down, at least in so far that he is not actively hyperventilating anymore. He’s still in the corner, a hand clutching the front of his shirt, looking for all the world like a man taking his first breaths after almost drowning out at sea. When Techno meets his eyes, Tommy’s agitated expression looking back bleeds with the full expectation to be pushed back under.

Techno focuses on the mugs instead as he walks closer. The ceramic warms his calloused hands. He sets them both on the bedside table, slides a low stool over and sits down on it. He grabs a pot from the shelve behind him and measures out the dried chamomile.

From the corner of his eye, Techno can see Tommy watching him work. His head sways. It’s clear he’s only keeping upright by sheer adrenaline, clear that he’s still pretty darn sick.

“You should go back to bed,” Techno says. He props up a pillow against the wall and folds back the covers on one side.

Tommy regards him for a full ten seconds, then rasps, “Okay.” It’s barely audible. The fit took a lot out of his recovering lungs.

Reminded, Techno reaches behind him for a jar of honey and stirs a fat spoonful into Tommy’s mug.

Tommy stumbles over, unsteady, uncertain. (Apparently he walks well enough to have made it to Techno’s chests and back before, so Techno does not offer to help.) Tommy lifts the covers and sits up in the bed, then shuffles until he’s on the far end of it, as physically far away as he can get from Techno without disobeying his request.

“Listen,” Techno says. And he explains Tommy’s situation. Where Techno found him, how he almost froze, his fever, how he can stay here for a while until he’s on his own two feet again. Tommy doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask questions. The only sounds leaving him are from the occasional coughs he can’t seem to suppress. Though his eyes are open, he doesn’t make eye contact once. Techno doubts any of this is landing, so he keeps it short.

(Any jokes about Tommy’s attention span that he’d usually make die on his tongue. Technoblade isn’t exactly a tactful or sensitive person, as he just demonstrated, but even he knows not to kick wounded dogs.)

“Here,” Techno says, handing him the mug now that is has cooled. “You should drink something, then go to sleep. We can talk more tomorrow when your voice has recovered.” Tommy’s hoarse voice is about the least of the issues here, but it is the most easily addressable, and Techno could do with a little easy mode after all of that.

Tommy takes slow sips from the mug. His energy drains visibly each time he raises the drink to his lips. Soon his eyes start drooping, his posture slagging. The mug in his hands tilts dangerously. Techno takes it from Tommy’s limp fingers before he spills the remaining contents into his lap. “Just lie down,” Techno says, and Tommy does. His eyelids close, but his eyebrows stay knitted together in worry.

Techno drinks the rest of his own mug, wishing he’d made himself something stronger. He does not know what to make of the scene that just played out. Tommy pulling a weapon on him? Rude, disgruntling, zero out of ten would not recommend, but if he is being perfectly fair, excepted. The two of them are at the level of relationship where attacking the other is a good first instinct—Techno was absolutely ready to brain the boy with a pickaxe upon first uncovering him under his house, after all. And Tommy is clearly still disoriented, doesn’t seem to realise how long he’s been at Techno’s mercy already. Everything after the shot released, however, is not so easily explained away.

Techno sits there until Tommy’s breath slows. Then he seats himself at the side of the bed and leans over to lay a hand on his forehead.

Tommy gasps at the contact. His shoulders shoot up. Definitely not as passed out as Techno hoped he’d be. After that he makes no move to shrink away, no move at all.

“Uh.” Techno says, swallows. They’re back to awkward eye contact, his favourite. Techno’s hand hovers. “I need to know if you still have a fever or not.” Still no movement from Tommy, no verbal acknowledgement. He retracts his hand. “I’ll just, right, I’ll go get the thermometer,” Techno says stiffly. He should have done that in the first place, would have, if he hadn’t gotten so used to routinely hand checking the unconscious teenager’s temperature over the past few days.

* * *

Tommy’s temperature reads 37.6 degrees Celsius. Almost back to normal.

It’s no delirium that’s making Tommy act this way.


End file.
